


Paragon of "Diplomacy"

by shadowNova



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:56:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowNova/pseuds/shadowNova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take an apostate who isn't as tough as she'd like to pretend, an Antivan-Crow-Turned-Ally, one somewhat unusual bard, and just for good measure, let's toss in a mage who's battle cry just happens to be 'diplomacy'. Mix well, and sprinkle lightly with other companions, then place in Ferelden to simmer. What do you get? Why, "diplomacy", of course!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paragon of "Diplomacy"

 

 

_"I'm scared, Amell. There's so much, and so little seems important. What do you do?" The two teens sat at the windowsill, looking out over the lake. "...You fight. You fight to keep yourself, to remember who you are. You fight, because that's the enly thing that **is** important. And at the end of the day..." Amell sighed, fiddling with her hair. "At the end of the day, Duiniel, you hide your fear, because you **have** to keep going, have to stay strong, because... You can't afford to let anyone see your pain, see your fear."_

* * *

 

"Darkspawn ahead." The elven lass hopped down from her perch in the tree, landing nearly on top of the other woman. "Oh? Fun!" Her eye held a playful glint, and she only giggled when glared at. " _Must_ you do that?" Morrigan demanded, brushing off her clothes. "T'is foolish, and serves no purpose other then to annoy those around you." "Ah, my dear apostate, but the veiw _is_ quite lovely, no?" The elf grinned at Zevran's comment, light blue eyes sparkling "Aw, thank you, Zevvy! You're so sweet!" She  smiled happily.

Some might call Duiniel Surana pretty- though, by habit, she would deny it. Lithe and small, she had long red hair that she wore in two long braids, as impracticle as that may be. Leliana asked to cut it, once, but after the elf's horrified response, she never did so again. A scar came up her face, ending just under her right eye with a small curl. She was always laughing, and it was hard not to like her. Her sheer joy in life was infectious, even if it could be annoying at times. Like, say, now.

Duiniel spun around, skipping a little. "So! I'ma try to "diplomacy" at those darkspawn, you miiight wanna stand back!" Alistair looked at her in disbelief. "You can't just, just use diplomacy on darkspawn! What, are you going to talk them to death?" She laughed, spinning again. "Don't be ~silly~, Ali! You can "diplomacy" at ~anything~! Watch!" And with that, she launched a fireball from her staff, shouting, " _Diplomacy!_ " "...Oh. Diplomacy." "Indeed."

* * *

Duiniel held her head over the barrel, scrubbing furiously at her hair. "Ew-ew-ew..." The water was tinted red from the blood in her hair, and with a sigh, she changed out the water before returning to work. "Difficulties?" She jumped, turning around and flinging droplets of water everywhere. "Oh! Hi Zevvy!" She smiled brightly. "Yeah, kinda." She turned back around, returning to trying to get the grime from her hair. "It's so... So... Sticky!" She huffed a little, scubbing at her scalp. Zevran chuckled, pulling her hands away from her hair, and gently, with skilled hands, worked through her hair, quickly getting the remaining blood from her hair. "There. Much better, no?" He removed his hands, and Duiniel smiled brightly as she turned to Zevran. "Thank you, Zevvy!" She retreated into her tent, leaving Zevran behind.

Zevran had first watch, and it wasn't long before the Warden joined him by the fire, bits of ribbon in hand, her bag beside her. "It's my turn to ask a question, right?" she asked, referring to the tradition they had begun, of exchanging bits of thier past. Zevran nodded, and she was quiet for a moment. "Hm... When did you get your tattoos?" "Ah, now this is a new one. I got my tattoos after my final tests to become a Crow. My turn now, yes?" Duiniel nodded, working on her first braid. "How did you get that scar?"

Duiniel looked up, blinking. Her hand came up to trace the scar, and she was quiet for a moment. Right when Zevran was about to retract the question, she spoke. "A templar. I was... In his way, and wouldn't do what he wanted. He hit me, and his gauntlets left this cut on my face. Greagor was... Infuriated." Her voice was soft, for a moment lacking it's customary cheer. "I... Hope he's not still at the Circle, when we get there. I really do." She stood without another word, retreating to her tent, and leaving a confused Zevran behind. There was more to that story, he was sure... But what? He wouldn't brood on it, though. She'd tell him when she was ready.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I should be working on my other stories, and I know this chapter is really short, and I WILL work on them, but... I don't know where to go with LTC, and I'm stuck on the other two, so.


End file.
